


Incarnate

by ImperfectOrphanage



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 01:37:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15232506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperfectOrphanage/pseuds/ImperfectOrphanage
Summary: I remember being born.





	Incarnate

The first thing I remember is-

No, strike that.

The last thing I remember is being born. Not in the sense that a human is born through the hard work of a loving mother, but in a rather hard to understand concept. I’m not human. I don’t think I ever was.

What I do remember before birth was running. All of us. My group or whatever it was had done something inexcusable and we had to go away. There is no feeling in the human soul for what I felt that day. No words. Nothing. I was alone. I was with others. I was in a crowded hospital.

I was alone.

I could never go home.

I could _never_ go home.

Home hated me. Home. The only place I ever knew and now can’t remember is the one place I want to be and the only place I am not allowed to return to. Not because of war-well, maybe it was but I don’t remember that-but because of something I did. Something stupid? Something for a good cause?

I don’t remember.

To this day I remember that feeling. I haven’t had the happiest life, and many therapists tell me I’ve had one terrible, horrible, wild ride. But that feeling will never compare to any pain a human can suffer.

I suppose, I should start over.

I was born on September 17th, 1981. More accurately, my host was.

She wasn’t breathing. She was so small and helpless and the doctors were working and there was yelling and screaming and all sorts of chaos.

I was calm. I stood with a brother I cannot remember now. He was tall. They were all tall. I was the baby of the group I guess. The young one. The little brother. I watched the baby suffer and I didn’t see the little body. I didn’t see the blue skin.

I saw a soul. She had long hair and a headband to hold it back. I don’t remember much of her face or the color of her eyes-brown?-but I remember the words.

“Please. Please don’t make me go out there.”

I remember thinking, what on earth could ever, ever compare to the pain of being rejected by the only home you ever knew? To be hated by your kin and your father? How could anything this soul had suffered or would suffer compare to that feeling?

“Okay.” I said. “I’ll take your pain.”

It happened in a breath. I wouldn’t remember nor be aware of anything for four years.

\---

I became aware in a heartbeat. I remember it well.

I was playing with a red jeep truck made out of plastic and I knew it was one of my favorite toys. Consider me a tomboy even as a baby and small child but I loved trucks. I also loved animals and technology and all things cute and friendly. I had a teddy bear named Oscar that I would later recall receiving in a playpen as I was only one or two at the time. Those memories are cherished, but are not important.

I became aware, and I knew I needed to find someone. Who or what I cannot and did not remember, but the urge to find them was so strong I asked my mother, “where is my sister?”

“She’s at school.”

“School,” I said. It meant people. I’m not sure how I knew but it did. “I want to go to this school.”

My mother became excited. She called my father and told him how I wanted to go and that they didn’t need to force me like they did my sister. I was confused, but many things in a human world make little sense to a half-awakened child.

For eighteen years I searched. I waited each day school began anew and each new semester brought me hope and dashed it away. He never showed. He didn’t waltz into the school dances. He didn’t appear at my concerts. He didn’t come. Even in distant schools he was not, and I still have not found him.

I don’t remember him. But my heart _aches_ for him.

I lived life on a very interesting edge. I knew I was not like the others. I knew I was something more but what that more was never occurred to me until college.

\---

I came across a book. I was into all things cute and cuddly even then, and had become enamored with faeries and fair folk. I learned much on the darker side of those things bright and beautiful, but that was not what called to me in the end.

I had found a book about faeries. I had found a book about angels.

I had found a book about _incarnates_.

Suddenly, things began to make sense. When I was four and my father wanted me to climb a ladder onto a roof and I panicked and screamed how they would never make me go back _there_. When I was a small child I knew too much and there was conversation on how I was _not a normal child_ but an adult in a small body. When I was a youth, going through an awkward teenage phase, I knew I was not like the other-excuse me-rabble I attended school with. When I was a young adult, the memories peeked back through the thick veil and to this day I cannot pinpoint when or how I remembered. As if they were always there.

I remembered the hospital.

I remembered the pain.

I cried at night under the cold stars.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, please let me come back home!”

The sky would not hear me. No one would hear me.

I grew strong. I changed. I became an adult and a rather proper human unless one was to look too deep into my eyes or heart. People would often fear my gaze and so I hid it. Children would love me for no reason other than my presence. I wondered if they could see me. See me as I should have been.

Blue fabric…silver armor…wing insignias carried through out.

But no wings. I had no wings.

I don’t think I ever had.

But maybe…maybe I had and they took them and my memories as part of the penance.

Penance for what I could still not remember.

As I grew I often went in search of my brethren in occult places. Psychic websites. Ghost hunting websites. Incarnate websites. Chat rooms. I needed to find someone to make me sane.

I met someone, years back. She read my aura. It was silver and white.

It means purity.

I still laugh. Purity. From a fallen. How cute.

I met another, years back. She was like me. She had done something stupid-perhaps that was what I had done-and had been punished for it. She remembered.

I did not.

I lost her presence in a small argument in which she could not agree to disagree. I don’t miss her.

How odd.

Once, as an adult, I lived on my own. It was a mistake.

Once, while I did, I saw a man in the dark of a storm wearing a hoodie and my first reaction was panic and terror. _“They’ve found me!”_  my soul cried.

Who they are I do not know.

I used to fear being found. I feared the angels coming to finish my sentence and bring me back up for the final judgement. I feared it to the point I did not sleep.

As a much older adult…one who has seen the ins and outs of a troubled family life…I no longer fear the end. It will be a blessing. Even if I’m erased from existence…I existed. I lived. I loved. I did good things. I helped people. Even if all I did was exist…I did exist.

I’m not sure how many of my brethren are out there, waiting, watching, and hoping.

I’m not sure how many memories and quirks I cannot recall at this moment. I know there is so much more to my story and yet when I try to piece things together it is as if my brain clouds up.

It could be them. It could be me.

Or maybe…it could be…that at this point it no longer matters.

I am happy in my suffering.

I love you, brother.

I love you, Father.

I am happy.

Thank you.


End file.
